A change will do you good.

I hurt a lot.  All over, in fact.  Dr. Barbie told me it is because I'm overweight.

Dr. Barbie is an asshole.

My legs have been hurting since November of 2014.  They have gotten worse over the last year, to the point where I wanted to chop the left one off during that awesome youth group retreat I went on for my birthday. That was my left leg.  Now my right is in on the action, and trying to move my body to shed the pounds ends with me in a fetal position at bedtime, popping Motrin and praying for sleep to come.

All that complaining aside,  I decided to experiment with the pain the other day.  I woke up feeling like I was walking on broken glass.

I got in the shower, and said to myself, "SELF! You are not going to focus on this pain anymore. You are going to focus on how the warm water feels on your skin.  You are going to focus on the feel of shampoo bubbles in your hands and the lather in your hair.  You're going to focus on the scent of your body wash.  You're going to listen to Kevin sneaking in to lay against the bathtub while you shower and listen to him sigh once he settles against the tiles.  You're going to focus on the feel of the towel drying your body that can move even though it hurts. You're going to focus on the clothes you can afford to buy and dress yourself with even if you're not your perfect size. You're going to focus on the food that nourishes your body and you are going to be happy that you are alive cause it would suck to be the opposite."

It was a good pep talk I had with myself. I am telling myself the same thing now as my thighs throb from power walking around my workplace. In heels.  Like an idiot. But I'm lucky to have a job, period.

This positive thinking stuff is exhausting. BUT I AM TRYING, GUYS.  I'm really, really trying.

Bloggity, blog, blog

This blog is coming to you from my new laptop computer.

It's shiny.  It's blue.  And all the keys are working. I don't have to hit the right shift key to get things to capitalize. I just type, using my left pinky to CAPS ALL THE THINGS.  That's right.  That was not CAPS LOCK. That was straight shifting, bitches.

I'm trying to get back into PMS mode.  I miss it.  The girls are my kids. I miss them and creating fart jokes for them to say.  I downloaded a template for a well known comic book publisher, and am going to be re-typing PMS Adventures, the graphic novel, into the style they want and submitting it. What's the worst that can happen?  They say no and I'm back to finding a local artist I can work with who I feel comfortable giving notes to. 

I think this may all have to wait a week or two. I have a baby shower to host this coming weekend for one of my best friends. Kevin has a grooming appointment tomorrow.  And I have another doctors appointment on Monday to find out why I am so god damn tired all the time.

Thanks, shiny new computer.  I missed blogging on the weekends.

Fear and loathing.

I quit improv a couple of months ago.  I couldn't be happier.

I think about improv now and I have physical reactions. A friend posted a link to an improv retreat, and the headshots of all the instructors made my esophagus fill with stomach acid. Reading the descriptors for the classes made my eyes cross and my heartrate sped up. I think I have PISD.

Post Improv Stress Disorder.

It can only be helped by long naps, reading crappy sci fi fantasy novels, and taking your time walking your poor dog who was alone during all those hours of driving to and from rehearsals.  It can also be helped by using real objects in your home, as your muscles may be trained to mime a salt shaker in a restaurant with imaginary menus and cutlery.  Cook real food and actually chew things.

If  a flashback is really bad, I recommend balling up a long sleeved flannel shirt and throwing it and your Converse into the back of your closet.

Make sure and do something fun on what would have been your show nights. This past month, I had pizza with my parents instead of leaving work early to haul ass down to the theater, scarfing down Burger King on the way so there would be something in my stomach before I bled imagination all over the floor of a dingy black box theater while some asshole dragged his foot through my life blood by negating my every offer.

I don't miss improv.

I'm thankful that I quit when I did. The surgery went well, other than a slight infection after the fact that I am going to check out with my doctor. Had I been working and doing improv?  I probably wouldn't have been able to do it, let alone afford it.

Cuts like a knife.

I love that Bryan Adams song.

Also, I'm going under the knife.

This Wednesday, I'm supposed to go to Margate and get a polyp removed from my uterus.  It's a big old polyp. It's making my uterus cranky. A cranky uterus means a cranky Lauren.

I had my pre-op appointment yesterday, and my doc broke some more lovely news for me.  Instead of one 20 minute procedure, he's adding another hour long procedure. A lapropscopic procedure to deal with some adhesions on my uterus that could be causing issues as well. He's gonna cut my belly button, put a camera in me and check everything out.

I was surprised.  I'm scared.

I don't know why I'm scared.  Part of me thinks that I'll find some crazy news out about my lady bits that will make me hate them. Like that I won't be able to have the babies I'm not sure I even want.  I don't know. Going under scares me.

But relief from these stupid symptoms will be great.  No more debilitating cramps.  No more fun mid cycle bleeding.  No more overwhelming PMS.  No more PMS decisions.  No more exhaustion and randomly falling asleep.  No more passing out.

If all that goes away, it will certainly be worth it. BUT I AM FREAKING OUT.

I love oversharing.  My mom got on my case about it the other day, but I feel like the world needs to know that it's ok to be your own advocate. I have felt that something was wrong for the last two years, and it took visiting 4 different doctors, 15 different tests including Xrays, MRI's, Ultrasounds. blood work, poop tests, urine tests, and 2 ER visits to finally get to this place where I will be hopefully solving the issues I've been having. And the only reason I am at this point is because I didn't give up on myself.  And you shouldn't either.

Don't go to the light, Carol Anne!

I kinda died on Saturday. It was nice.

I am an idiot.

I've been battling 2 infections over the last month, and decided that the PERFECT time to donate blood would be whilst fighting these infections and whilst on my lady time.

I walked all morning with Mom and Kevin, and had about an hour to get ready and get to the blood center. I shoved a Belvita biscuit into my piehole, showered and drove to the facility.  My iron level was 13.2. Good enough to donate!  My blood pressure was a little lower than normal...but still ok. 113 over 78.  My temp was 97.8, but over the past few months has been lower than normal.  Still ok.

The lady stabbed me.  It hurt. My arm started tingling halfway through the donation. I didn't say anything, as the phlebotomists were obsessed with Bobbi Christina being found unconscious in a bathtub, The donation was done. She told me to put pressure on my arm and to raise it over my head. I told her I felt wobbly.  She walked away to get me an apple juice from the fridge. Then nothing.

I dreamt that Kevin and I were walking down the trail near my house. The trees arched over the path, with sunlight shining down through the gaps in the leaves. Kevin had lots of energy, and I felt at peace. So cozy.

"Lauren!  Lauren! Wake up, Lauren!"

I opened my eyes to two women standing over me, fluorescent light hurting my eyes.  I wanted to go back to sleep. Why were my shoes gone?  Why was my chest cold? I looked down and saw ice packs on my legs and on my chest.  According to my timeline of events, I was out cold for 20 minutes.

"What did you eat today?"

"I had...I had...one of those...biscuit. Ungh. Belvita things." I slurred.

"Here's some juice."

"I'm going to throw up."

"Here's a bag."

I dry heaved for 20 minutes, until one of the ladies popped me in a wheelchair and let me let lose in the bathroom.

One of the ladies was on the phone. She was canceling the paramedics. DAMN. No hot paramedics. BOO.

They rolled me back to the bed. The lady had to fill out a report and took my blood pressure. 104/38. I was concerned about that, but she didn't acknowledge it or comment. I started feeling slightly better. They rushed me out the door.  I called Mom to let her know I might die again at some point.  She said she'd call and check on me.  I should not have been driving.

I got to Jog Rd. and had to pull over. I had to throw up but couldn't.

I got home and threw up all over myself.

I napped.

Got up and threw up again. There was nothing left.

Napped.

Ate a turkey sandwich. Felt better.

Drove to Walgreens.  Bought apple juice, soda and iced tea. Drove through Burger King.

Napped.

I was scared to really sleep, so stayed up til 1am watching TV before I decided to go to bed.  I only locked one of the deadbolts in case someone had to get in to save me.

I called my boss on Sunday and asked if I had to work the Super Bowl party since I died.  He said I had to.

I am wiped today. I started a 7 day round of pills for the latest fun time infection. They make me wonky.  I have a procedure next week that is supposed to clarify all this garbage, but I may have to reschedule as they want me to take 3 days of antibiotics before the procedure, and that will conflict with the other treatment.

Decisions are stupid.  Can I go back to walking that path with Kevin?  It was soooo nice.

Single Bliss...

Last night, I ate cold pizza for dinner.  I put salt on it as if cold pizza requires more salt. Kevin got some pieces of crust.  I put on an old sweater of my mom's and some sweatpants.

I took an hour nap on the couch. I have another infection and it's kicking my ass.

I woke up, watched cheesy Hallmark movies, and then decided to read.

I bought a copy of Maya Angelou's Letters to My Daughter a couple of weeks ago and just started reading it. It's great.

I turned off the TV, turned out all the lights in the living room, got ready for bed and snuggled in my full size bed with book in hand.  Kevin plopped down on the floor next to the head of the bed. He started snoring immediately.  He's had an infection, too. A poopy, squirty kinda infection.  The Pottinger household is a mess.

I laid down in the middle of the bed. Head propped on all four pillows. Tucked my legs under my two comforters, adjusting my body to the feather mattress under me for maximum comfort. I read a couple of paragraphs, and looked at the clock.  I typically go to bed at 11, but tonight I felt a need to turn in at 10:30. Light off, I told Kevin I loved him and rolled over, pillow between my legs. My phone went off.  It was my friend Anthony, wanting to know if I was up to talk. I called him. We chatted til 11:20. I hung up and snuggled in, falling asleep immediately.

I woke up this morning at 7:15.  I peed with the door open after feeding Kevin. I grabbed his leash, walked out the door, and walked him for a half hour in my sweatpants and Mom's old sweater. I got ready for work. I gave him some treats, and headed out the door for my day.

I didn't have to think about anyone else and their needs.  I didn't have to sneak out of the room to chat with my friend.   I didn't have to share my pizza or be judged for adding salt/Hallmark movie/sweatpants and Mom's sweater.  I don't have to share Kevin.  I don't have someone asking me to turn out the light so they can sleep.

Being single has it's lonely times, sure.  But the non-lonely times are pretty awesome.

Wedding weirdness.

You never really know how you've effected someone until the day they introduce you to their new spouse and say, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."

John Sheetz go married this weekend to a wonderful woman named Bekkah. They were married in a Lodge in Wakulla Springs, FL. It was perfect for them. The ceremony was beautiful. They offered communion.  I took it.  I interpreted it as a show of support for the new couple in their life together. The bread was tasty.

I've known John since we were 12 years old. We were on newspaper staff together.  We were really great friends in high school.  He was my adventure friend, and we'd end up going for long bike rides or to art galleries together.  One of my fondest memories was the two of us, riding our bikes from my house to a park on Haverhill and up Military Trail back to my house.   Senior year, we wandered around Palm Beach Island with our friends who had all been nominated for Pathfinder Awards.  I was off to tour the world with Up With People. They were all making plans for college.

During my tour, I got emails from John.  He was in Europe. He had decided to travel, too. We emailed back and forth over the year. Me from Prague.  Him while working on a boat in the Mediterranean. Me from Finland. Him from Stratford Upon Avon. I got postcards from him at home, telling me that I should go here or there. I was always jealous of his adventures even while I was having my own.

I had never met Bekkah, but thought I knew her pretty well through facebook posts. Halfway through the reception, I cornered John and pointedly told him that neither I not our friend Katie who was there had ever even met Bekkah. He introduced Katie and her husband. Then me. She said, "I've heard so much about you." He said, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."

Who knew?  Certainly not me.  It's rare to get an opportunity to hear how you've effected your friends. It was nice to hear.  I think it's something I need to say more.